


Off The Mountain Path

by TrenchcoatsandMisery



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst Up to Your Eyeballs, Dark, Dark Magic, Episode: s01e06 Rare Species, F/M, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fix-It of Sorts, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier gets broken and put back together, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Magic, Not A Fix-It, Not Canon Compliant, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Pining, Sad Jaskier | Dandelion, Temporarily Unrequited Love, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), at some point they get together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:14:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23246086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrenchcoatsandMisery/pseuds/TrenchcoatsandMisery
Summary: Destiny does not care for your wishes though. From the richest man to the poorest, destiny will fuck you over if it benefits the ‘grand plan’. Jaskier could only resist so long before it crept up on him, seizing his heart and soul, changing them forever. And Jaskier made it so, so easy for it.Because Jaskier made the mistake of thinking he loved Geralt.Jaskier's life ends on the side of that mountain, alone and in pain. But that doesn't mean he's done. He's getting off this mountain and the world isn't ready for when he does.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 41
Kudos: 326





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to angst fest 2020! This is a warning from me, your humble bard, that this is heavy on the angst and low on the fluff. Do not threat though! There will, no matter how bleak it seems, be fluff. At some point. Probably several chapters in the future. But hey. I'm working on it.

Contrary to belief, Jaskier has never been in love. He lusts, he admires, he _treasures_ , but he never loves. One only has to study the songs as he has, listen to the epic ballads and read the tragic stories, to know that love is beautiful and pure and ultimately fickle. Jaskier is all too aware that there is no such thing as a happy ending, not in a world where people fight for scraps and death lurks in every shadow. But he has ways of dealing with it. He walks till his feet are cracked and blistered, smiles till his face aches, plucks at the strings of his lute even when his fingers begin to bleed because if the world isn’t going to give anyone a happy ending, the least Jaskier can do is make it a pleasant middle. He guards his heart and dances around the call of others, flirting and flitting from town to town just to see the smiles on weary faces. He gathers lovers but never, ever loves, and that is enough for him.

Destiny does not care for your wishes though. From the richest man to the poorest, destiny will fuck you over if it benefits the ‘grand plan’. Jaskier could only resist so long before it crept up on him, seizing his heart and soul, changing them forever. And Jaskier made it so, so easy for it.

Because Jaskier made the mistake of thinking he loved Geralt.

He saw a figure clad in leather, long white hair tangled and matted with blood, eyes of blazing gold that had seen far too much and his heart had sung its sweetest song. Geralt, not a beast but a man, a man with a heart that beat stronger than any Jaskier had ever encountered, had entered his life and everything had seemed better. If life was a question, Geralt was his answer, his saviour. No more did he feel that darkness that called to him in his dreams, no more did blood drip from his fingers and pool in his boots. Jaskier would care for Geralt, protect him, follow him to the ends of the earth. And perhaps, as time went on, Geralt would do the same for him.

For a while, it looked like that might even happen.

Cold indifference became comradery, and then something _more_. The witcher, against all odds, trusted him and even though he still protested Jaskiers claims of friendships, his protests were softer and less frequent. This, this is love he thinks. He whispers it at night when Geralt falls asleep, tests it out on the tip of his tongue.

_Love._

_I love him._

_I love **you**_

He starts to say it louder. Grows bolder in his actions, grasps Geralt’s shoulder just those few seconds longer, brushes their hands together more often, buys him scents that won’t irritate his senses. Nothing. So he does the only thing he can do, the only thing he’s been able to do since childhood. He sings about it. Sings to the trees and the wind, sings to a tavern full of strangers, sings right into Geralt’s eyes over the campfire. Still, nothing. Something stands between them, a wall made of ice and stone that is older than Jaskier 10 times over. Jaskier takes one look at it, tests its strength, and decides that if he cannot break down, he will climb it instead. Perhaps he should have seen the wall as the warning it was meant to be, but he fixates on the idea that maybe there’s some part of Geralt that needs rescuing. And he’ll be damned if he’s not the one who saves it. 

Somewhere between Posada and the mountain, Jaskier forgets that love is dangerous. It has a blinding effect on those who nurture it, and for once he is willing to be blinded, from Geralt's infatuation with the witch to the fact its been years and Geralt still won’t call him a friend. So he takes the crumbs he is given, that occasional smirk or huff of laughter, and tries to ignore the fact he’s starving. Later, he’ll learn to regret this, but in those moments he couldn’t be happier.

He writes more songs about love. Its beauty, passion, joy. Love is acceptance no matter what, giving yourself to someone so completely you can’t bear to be apart, and his songs talk about a wolf and a lark who will never leave each other, with a love so strong it could end cold winters and bring about warm summers.

He thought that’s what they had. No matter how many djinns, witches or dragons that came between them it would always be the two of them against the world.

But this?

This isn’t love.

They are standing on a mountain top, face to face, but to Jaskier, it feels like there is an eternity between them. He is reaching across, teetering on the edge, stretching his hand just begging Geralt to _please, please, **please**_ just take it. He can forgive it all if Geralt just takes his hand. There are no happy endings though, and Jaskier with his lute and his dreams is no exception. So Geralt doesn’t take his hand and instead looks at him with anger in his eyes.

“Why is it that whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shovelling it!”

He didn’t see this coming. Love kept him distracted, kept him weak so that only when Geralt sunk his jagged claws into his chest and ripped out his heart did he recognise it for the trap it truly was. It still beats there, in Geralt’s hand, pulsing softly in his palm. It would probably continue to beat there forever, so desperate for Geralt’s love that even now it would forgive him in a single moment.

Geralt crushes it to a pulp, lets the mangled remains fall to the dirt.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”

Nothing will ever be the same again.


	2. Storm of lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Geralt has killed him, whether he realises it or not._

Jaskier has fallen to the one thing he swore never to fall for. There is a roaring in his ears as he says something, though he doesn’t know what, and then he is stumbling down a mountainside with a hollow ache in his chest. It is only after what must have been hours of mindless wandering that he notices that the sun has set and he is lost. He is so…. Empty that he can’t even bring himself to feel panic at the thought that he is alone with nothing but a lute and the shattered remains of his heart.

There is no way he is going back up the mountain. The look in Geralt’s eyes as he’d said those words… Jaskier will never forget it and most certainly does not want to relive it. So it’s down then, down to the bottom of the mountain and hopefully to a settlement of some kind. He begins to walk. And for a while, it’s one step after the other, staring blankly in front of him. There is too much in his head, swirling and whirling and boiling and bubbling. He is deep in the thick of it, so deep that he doesn’t see the clouds above him darken, or hear the ominous rumble of thunder in the distance. No. All he can hear are **those damn words** , all he can see are golden eyes filled with hatred and anger all directed to him. 

Geralt has killed him, whether he realises it or not. 

_The first droplets of water are what snaps him out of autopilot. The copse of trees he stands in has gone silent, and there is a sense of tension in the air. Like the whole world is holding its breath. Then the heavens unleash their torrent, and rain is falling hard and heavy, thunder and lightning crack open the sky_

The truth is Geralt should never have said those words. He realises this two hours after Jaskier leaves, arriving in the dwarfs camp to find his bard is nowhere to be seen. His things are still there, but not him. 

_Jaskier is running, the wind ripping at his clothes, howling in mocking delight as it chases him. He is drenched, rain lashing against him, blinding him as he stumbles through the woods. He is cold, panting with the exertion, but if he stops, he dies. He has no Witcher to find him shelter, no Geralt to share body heat with. It’s up to him._

It takes him even longer to realise that Jaskier isn’t coming. He’s not gonna walk into the camp, a soft grin on his face as he squeezes Geralt’s shoulder and tells him everything’s fine. Everything’s forgiven. He is gone and it’s Geralt's fault.

_He trips. A root is sticking out of the ground, small and barely breaching the soil. But the ground is slick, the storm is strong and Jaskier is not in the right state of mind to be careful. His foot snags the root and he is falling forwards, into the mud on that steep steep slope, rolling down the hill. Rocks cut into his body as he desperately tries to stop gravity’s pull, but the mountain is steep and the ground is now gushing with water. He curls into himself, trying to protect his head, but then he is tumbling over a ledge, slamming into the ground, uncurling, head colliding with the trunk of a tree. And everything is still._

Geralt stays at the camp until the storm clears. Jaskier must be off the mountain now, heading to some town to sing his songs and drink Geralt away. 

_(He’s not. He is lying against a tree, his body limp and cold, blood leaking from his temple)_

Geralt wonders if in a month he’ll still be hearing songs that paint him in a favourable light, or whether his bard will find another muse. He thinks about searching for him 

_(he’s waiting for him, unconscious but still trembling from the cold)_

But Jaskier deserves better than him. He probably wouldn’t even want to hear Geralt’s excuses anyway. So he packs up and continues to follow his path, smiling sadly at the memory of cornflower blue eyes. 

_(geralt is walking in the wrong direction. He won’t find Jaskier. He won’t help him. Jaskier is dying as he lies to himself that the witcher will come, and the witcher is lying that Jaskier will be fine as his bard is dying.)_


	3. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Would they miss you if you disappeared?”_

When he was a boy, long before Posada, Julian Alfred Pankratz broke his arm falling from the branches of a tree. His mother had warned him that the tree was old, the branches weak, that he lacked the necessary hand-eye coordination to climb it. But he had wanted to do it anyway, dreamt about it, regarded it with the kind of brash confidence that came with youth. On a warm summer evening, while his mother and father wined and dined guests in the manor, he had slipped away from the party with his heart set on reaching the top of that old oak. What a story it would make. However, exactly as predicted by his mother, a foothold had collapsed under his weight and he’d fallen

down,

down,

down,

hitting the ground with a cry and a snap. 

He lay, crying softly as he cradled his arm, under that tree for hours. Long enough for it to get dark, very dark. Long enough for the tears to dry on his cheeks, for the hiccupped sobs to stutter to a stop, for him to sit in the too still silence of the night and realise that no one was coming. Looking back, the thought must have been that his parents would notice his absence, that they’d jump into worried parent action and tear apart the world to find him. At that moment though, with the pain in his arm and the chill in the air, he’d just wanted someone, _anyone_ , to save him. Instead, he’d stumbled back to his house at around midnight and stood quietly in the doorway of the ballroom, watching the party continue in full swing as he waited for a moment his father wasn’t mid-conversation with an important noble. 

Years after, even after he’d shed that name and that life, he still held that memory close to his chest. It tugged at his sleeve when he left rooms, tapped on his shoulders anytime someone didn’t quite laugh at one of his jokes, whispering in what sounded suspiciously like his voice the question that loomed over him wherever he went.

“Would they miss you if you disappeared?”

But it wasn’t just the lingering trauma of that night that followed him around. The impact of his body on the ground, the crack of his bone, the flash of pain coursing through his veins. It had been the single most painful experience of his life. 

Well. Not anymore.

Back in the present, he is floating in a sea of warm darkness, cocooned in nothing but silence and the sound of his heartbeat. 

Then his eyes are opening, and he is staring at the bright blue sky and his body is on _fire_. Every nerve is screaming, and he just manages to turn his head to the side enough to spit out bitter, acrid vomit before passing out again.

The next time he awakens it still feels like every bone in his body has been torn out and shoved back in, all jumbled up. But he can start to pick out where exactly the pain is coming from.

His head, a steady throbbing, sticky with blood. 

His chest, tight and aching, each breath a pained gasp. He moves a hand tentatively to his side, presses down gently, chokes out a sob at the crackling sound that accompanies the pressure. He has patched up enough of Geralt’s injuries to know what broken ribs sound like. 

But worst of all is his leg. He raises his head just enough to see the crimson stain on his pants, the torn fabric revealing torn flesh and a glimpse of jagged white bone peeking out of the wound before he has to look away.

He appears to be lying on his side, back pressed against the trunk of a tree. He goes to move, tries to sit up, but the pain is… too strong. Black spots swim in his vision and he finds himself falling back into place, slipping back into the darkness. The third time Jaskier comes back to himself, someone is talking to him. 

“I can help you. Just say yes.”

He blinks blearily at the sky, tries to lift his head to see the source of the voice, doesn’t even manage to move it an inch before the splitting headache stops him.

“Yes or no, Julian. Would you like help?”

The voice is a man’s, deep and kind. Jaskier breathes in, feels the stabbing of a hundred knives in his chest. 

“Who-“

He coughs the word out with all he’s got. There is the sound of someone moving, kneeling beside him perhaps, and then a face is hovering above his. White hair and golden eyes look into down on his broken body and all Jaskier can do is whimper.

“Geralt?”

A laugh, short and bitter. Mocking. 

“He’s not coming for you little bard. But I'm here. ”

Jaskier squints up at the man, focuses on the slicked-back black, not white, hair. Takes in the dark green eyes that glow slightly around the edges of the iris. The grin with far too many teeth. 

“What are you.”

The words are weak, barely more than a whisper, but the man seems to hear them anyway.

“Someone who wants to help you, Julian."

Soemthing in his voice changes, causes the hairs on Jaskiers neck to stand to attention, activates the prey instinct that lets a surge of adrenaline into his bloodstream. He tries to lift himself up onto his arm, shuffle away, escape what is suddenly _not_ a man who looms above him. But hands take hold of Jaskier's shoulders and push them down, ignoring his cries of pain as it jostles his rib, a finger pressed to his lips as the man shushes him. 

"I can help you, I want to help you, _I need to help you_. And you will let me. Just say yes.”


	4. Say Yes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY.  
> Here we are. A long, long, shamefully long time after my last post. Whoops. 
> 
> I have not been a good writer, and I apologise. Please feel free to verbally attack me, I kinda deserve it after this long a gap between posts.

Monsters have always intrigued Jaskier. There is a certain beauty in the creatures that crawl out from the dark, poetry in their movements and tragedy in their stories. Whether cursed maidens, spirits in a state of unrest, or simply the consequences of dark magic, each one is unique in their nature and appearance. He explained this once to Geralt, who was standing over a ghoul corpse at the time, and Geralt had frowned and hmm’d at his enthusiasm.

“They kill things, people take out contracts, I kill them. It’s not poetry Jaskier, it’s a transaction.”

Then the Witcher had wiped his sword on the side of his pants and that had been that.

At the time he’d thought this was quite a pig-headed response from the man, but as he watches the monster beside him pick up the broken remains of his lute, he finds himself agreeing. There is no poetry in the way that the creature holds it carelessly in a too-tight grip, nor the way it then reclines against a rock and props its feet onto Jaskier’s broken leg.

He cries out, and the monster smiles.

_Oh rabbit, my claws are dull now so don't be afraid  
I could keep you warm as long as you can just try to be brave_

Where nimble fingers once danced, heavy one's fumble, a poor imitation of strumming as it sings tunelessly along to the rhythm.

_Yes I know I'm a wolf and I've been known to bite  
But the rest of my pack, I have left them behind_

Filvandrel’s lute was the most beautiful instrument Jaskier had ever held. No matter where they were on the road, inn or forest Jaskier dedicated time to its care. Taking a moment each night to clean the dirt and grime of the days travels away, applying oil with a gentle hand. However, not even the best lute in the world can survive a fall of this height (Jaskier might not even have survived it) and an instrument made for the court is not meant for a monsters hand. So Jaskier watches and he listens as the beautiful, beautiful lute, his pride and joy, lets out a twang as its strings snap. It sounds like a scream to jaskier’s ears.

The monster pouts, expression a mockery of the very real look of anguish on Jaskier’s face. 

“Oh no. That’s unfortunate.”

A pause. Then it throws the lute at Jaskier. He flinches as shards of wood explode above his head, hunching in an effort to cover his head, gasping out in pain as his ribs grind together. 

‘If you let me help you, I could fix it for you. Just say yes.”

Jaskier gives a short huff of laughter, choosing to ignore the flecks of red that come with it.

“I’m not certain what you are, but I am certain that nothing good can come out of this.

“That’s where you’re wrong. Because you’re dying bardling.”

It leans forward, pressing a hand against Jaskier’s chest. 

“I can feel it. I can _see_ it. Your light is fading and when it’s gone, it’s gone. But if you say yes, I can fix it. I just want to help you.”

He won’t say yes. While Geralt tells everyone they come across that Jaskier has no survival instincts, Geralt has always seen what he wanted to see. A defenceless fresh-faced bard who _soooo_ needs the big strong white wolf’s protection. Jaskier knows when something is wrong, and this entire scenario is deeply wrong. There is no way that he can say yes. Glowing eyes hint at magic, the wicked grin hints at malice, and the insistence that Jaskier agrees suggests that any decision Jaskiers makes will be final and binding. The djinn taught him that magic comes with a price, and Jaskier is not willing to pay that price, not even for his life.

But.

He doesn’t want to die here.

He doesn’t want to die alone.

His parents will be sad. They might not show it, distance and time numbing the gap Jaskier left in their lives, but they’d still mourn him. The professors at Oxenfurt might pen a poem in his honour, perhaps an epic about his life. Geralt… 

He doesn’t want to think about Geralt.

Death isn’t something he fears, but the realisation that **JulianAlfredPankratzViscountdeLettenhove** is going to die _here_ is something else entirely. 

But.

Three letters, one word, and that wouldn’t have to happen. All the musings over existence, of life, of victory and glory and vengeance, can’t compare to what one word could do for Jaskier. He could live.

He won’t say yes. Saying yes would be stupid. But he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to say no either.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are still alive folks!!! Here ya go, some more of that medium depressed Jaskier for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aggressive use of line breaks and dialogue! Wild and vague symbolism! The good stuff!

Whichever poet said ‘time heals all wounds’ was a liar. Granted, Jaskier is uncertain of how much time truly has passed, consciousness leaving him more often than not, but these wounds are not healing. His leg is festering, his head is throbbing, his mind is disintegrating. It’s harder to catalogue thoughts into real and unreal, metaphor or fact, but during the last few years of travelling with Geralt the lines had already begun to blur, so he supposes the loss isn’t that great.

The creature talks to him, and sometimes he talks back. It asks to be called life, then death, then simply ‘Taedh’. Jaskier studied Elder speech, knows that Taedh means bard, and wonders if it is a cruel mockery or a homage in his honour. His companion has stopped pressing at his wounds; he’d like to think that it’s because he has already shown he won’t buckle under physical pain. Really though, it’s probably because pain is all he feels now, so the torture method has become void. He would laugh if he could pull a deep enough breath, could ignore the persistent cough. 

The moon is bright tonight. It’s bright and round and silver. Jaskier finds himself smiling gently. Loon, moon, swoon. _Loon swoons beneath the moon_. Perhaps not his most poetic of lines, but he could work it into a bawdy drinking song. 

“What do you think of ‘loon swoons beneath the moon? Does it have potential?”

The creature looks at him, head tilted to the side. 

“I’m tired of these games little Lark.”

Jaskier huffed, irritated. 

“So now you don’t want to play.”

Silence is the only response. It reminds him of Geralt, but he doesn’t want to be reminded of Geralt. Not his silences or his grunts or the shimmer of his eyes in the campfire light. Taedh has moved closer, tilting Jaskier’s head with a firm grip on his chin.

“The fever makes you distracted.”

“The fever makes me sappy, that’s what the fever does.”

“I could take it away. Just say yes. Bardling, we can’t keep playing forever.”

“You may be tired of this, but I’m not…”

He is. He is so very tired. Every bone in his body feels like lead, weighing him down, pulling him into the ground. The square of dirt he lays on is his grave, the tree his back is braced against the headstone. He doesn’t want to die here. He doesn’t. _He doesn’t_. 

He can’t.

The creature, Taedh, his salvation and corruption is still talking but it doesn’t matter. It’s a buzz that grows and grows, overwhelming and all consuming until, and this is the moment, clarity.

“What will you do?”

A head tilt. By Melitele, he is sick of that little behavioural tic, all together too alien and animalistic for the mans skin he wears. 

“Don’t look so smug about it, it’s not because of your winning sales pitch. How are you going to help me?”

Taedh extends his hand, glowing green eyes locking with Jaskier’s.

“Say yes. I’ll take away the pain, heal your wounds.”

He takes the hand.

“Yes.”

Green eyes go red, sharp teeth grin widely, claws dig in. Jaskier can’t say he’s at all surprised. And then the world explodes.

_Gold, purple, blue, green, red red redredredredredred **NO**. Something is pushing its way into his skull, worming deep into his mind, but that’s **his** mind. The worm is healing his body, but trying to burn away Jaskier and jaskier is so **tired** of people shitting on him. Geralt left him on the side of the mountain, Yennefer dismissed him within moments, Jaskier buried him deep within the dark to wither away- wait. No. He’s jaskier. So who’s this? The worm maybe, might have wriggled in. Something else is in here with him, smothering him, but nonono he will not drown._

_NO._

_Pushes it down, grabs ahold of the creature trying to overtake him. Shadow fingers (his?) rip into it, digs deep into it, takes the glowing greenredgold and tears it out. Someone screams (him?) and something snaps._

And Jaskier wakes up.

Glowing blue eyes stare at bloodstained fingers as Taedh drops to the floor, chest caved in.

Well this is new.

**Author's Note:**

> Well. Hope you liked it. Hope i didn't hurt you, or even worse, disappoint you by not hurting you enough. Please feel free to hurl a comment through my window if you need to rant about the miserable content I've created.
> 
> Peace out kids, see you next chapter.


End file.
